I got a copy
of the News-Herald today for July 26, and saw your ad in it that you had some
chicken feed for sale—some wheat and stuff that you had picked up around the
thrasher. You said it was rich feed, so I guess it was. And you shouldn’t have
any trouble selling it as it has been advertised as far off as Fair France. But
it made me think of home to see the little local ad and a copy of the home
paper.

I have been
intending to write for several days, but as the official communiqués would say,
“there is nothing to report.”

The other day
I was going down the country aways when I saw some Marines moving in the area of
our field. Of course (I thought of Wirt), and lacked to have strained my eyes
out looking for Wirt. But I was in a hurry, and on business, so I couldn’t
stop. But I knew they would have to camp somewhere near our field, and that Wirt
would surely make inquiry about me, as he knew my address. Well the next day I
was restless as a cat. I knew approximately where they were camped, but I knew,
too, how difficult it would be to find a person among troops on the move. So I
figured it would be easier for Wirt to find me than me to find him. I stuck
around close to my squadron all day, but was so restless that I was absolutely
miserable. I couldn’t sit still a minute, and I didn’t want to take a walk
off anywhere; I couldn’t collect my thoughts enough to write letters; and in
fact, I couldn’t do anything to kill time. I simply had a hunch that I would
see Wirt before night. I knew he was close to me, within a few kilometers of me;
and though I was hoping against Fate, yet I couldn’t keep from feeling that
Fate was going to be good to us. I just almost knew he was coming.

That evening
I had just finished my supper and started to get up from the table when one of
the other lieutenants came to the door and said that someone outside wanted to
see me.

I had a
peculiar suspicion.

I went to the
door, and there stood a great big, broad-shouldered, full-faced, stout-looking
Marine under a “tin Stetson” hat, with a mustache about four inches long, a
gas mask on his shoulder; and a physique that looked strong enough to beat down
a whole division of Prussian Guards with a club. In fact, that rough,
sturdy-looking, tanned, weather-beaten face looked as though it had accomplished
that very feat. In its very expression was a living picture of Chateau-Thierry,
Soissons, Belleau Wood, and other places where the Marines have put the fear of
God in the (German) hearts. It was easy to see that its possessor had peddled
ammunition along the firing line while the (German) “minnewhiffers” and big
bertha sought for him. Withal he was a picture of sturdy manhood in the prime of
life. I was proud that he was my brother. That heavy mustache fooled me for a
second. But that voice and those blue eyes were the same as when I saw them
almost two years ago.

There was no
mistake, it was Wirt. You never saw two happier brothers than we were. Brother
Frank was up in the front trenches at that time, and not more than 25 kilometers
away. If he could have been present, it would have been the “end of a perfect
day.”

Wirt and I
went to my room and visited until about ten o’clock that night, and then I
walked up with him to where he was camped (only about 3 kilometer) and there we
sat down on a sack of oats and talked until three o’clock in the morning.

He got …
day and came down and spent the day with me. We certainly have enjoyed being
together.

I haven’t
seen Grady James. He has been made a sergeant and sent to a rifle-grenade
school. But he should be back most any time now. He has also been a lucky boy.
He has gone over the top every time the Marines have gone into action, but as
yet he is unblemished. I think I will get to see him and Clyde Higgins both
pretty soon.